


Der Blaubeermund

by Lauralot



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Corpses, HYDRA Trash Party, Hand Jobs, Horror, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Torture, Loneliness, M/M, Necrophilia fantasies, Necrophilia roleplay, Penetration with Foreign Object, Pseudo-Necrophilia, Self-Hatred, Temperature Play, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-13
Updated: 2014-10-13
Packaged: 2018-02-21 01:01:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2449529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lauralot/pseuds/Lauralot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once upon a time, a prince lay in an icy coffin.  He had skin as white as snow, hair as dark as ebony, and lips as blue as the sea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Der Blaubeermund

**Author's Note:**

> Nothing about this fic is okay. Mind the tags.
> 
> Written for [this prompt](http://hydratrashmeme.dreamwidth.org/587.html?thread=691275#cmt691275) on the HYDRA Trash meme: _"One partner remains quiet… and still, while the other has sex with him/her. For added realism the “pseudo-dead” partner can lie in cold water for a while before the act!"_
> 
> There is no actual necrophilia within this story, for those concerned. I am not sure if that makes it any better, but there you go.

When he was young, there was a book on the shelf called _Snow White_. It had been his mother’s when she was a little girl, as had the few other picture books in the house. Half the time he called it Mommy’s book, not because he thought of it as hers, but because he didn’t dare look through it without her. His mother had to be there to hold him because the story’s other name was the scary book.

It wasn’t the story that was scary. The story was the same every time: the prince showed up and kissed the princess awake, and then they lived happily ever after. The scary part was the pictures. 

After Snow White bit the apple, the illustration showed her collapsed on the floor, eyes wide and empty. One hand was frozen, clawing at her throat. Her mouth was open a little and a piece of the apple rested on her red lips. When he was very little, the picture made him cry. His mother would hold him and stroke his hair, and his father would shout at him to shut up and stop being such a pussy, shout at her for reading him that girly, fairy bullshit. 

He stopped asking for the scary book except for nights when his father wasn’t home. He got a little older and he stopped crying though the picture always scared him, even safe on his mother’s lap with her hand on his hair. The princess’s eyes looked like they were staring right at him even though they weren’t seeing at all. It creeped him out, but part of him wanted to look back and he never knew why. 

His mother left when he was five. 

Sometimes after she’d gone, he’d end up at the bookshelf without meaning to walk there, and he’d make himself stare at Snow White on the floor. He told himself it was to be brave and after enough time had passed, he’d reward his bravery by flipping to the end where she was safe with her prince. But even after, he wanted to look back at her body. It looked so stiff and still, so constant. It could never leave. 

*

The Winter Soldier lies naked on the examination table. He came out of the tank a little over an hour ago and he’s still thawing. His lips and fingertips are bluish with cold, little puddles forming around him as the remnants of slush drip off his body. There are fresh track marks in the crook of his elbow; he’s working his way out of shock and the process is aided by a number of injections. Drugs to improve circulation, to prevent him from trembling violently and risking injury to himself. Drugs to keep him from lashing out—in Rumlow’s understanding, the level of pain involved in coming out of cryo is considerable. 

The asset is motionless, save for the small and slow rise and fall of his chest. He could pass as unconscious if not for the stillness behind his eyelids. He’s awake, waiting. Maybe thinking, if they haven’t fried the ability out of his brain. 

Rumlow tries not to consider the asset’s awareness, turning to the attending technician. “Any problems?” 

Her pen works at her clipboard, but she’s doodling, not recording. He thinks she’s drawing a snowflake. “No, sir. The resuscitation procedure was uneventful. Vitals are recovering at the expected rate.” 

“No point in making you hang around then,” Rumlow says. “I can take it from here.” 

She nods, gathering up her belongings as she spouts the usual warnings about whom to call if the asset stops breathing or enters cardiac arrest. Her face is apathetic. If she knows what’s coming she doesn’t care, more concerned with her lunch break than anything that’ll happen once she’s out of sight. No one in HYDRA cares, not for the asset. Dogs don’t feel pity for a marrow bone dropped in their midst. 

Nor, Rumlow’s learned, do they pay much attention to the way the other dogs gnaw at the treat. 

The door clicks shut behind her. Rumlow stares at the asset, cold and pale and still as the table beneath him. 

Rumlow smiles. 

*

In the third grade, he found a dead bird. 

It flew into a window and fell onto the sidewalk, neck twisted, just a few feet ahead of him. He took it home and hid it in a box under his bed. They couldn’t afford pets—what they had went to booze, then food, then rent—but this pet never had to eat, never made messes to be cleaned up. He never had to worry about losing it, didn’t have to dread the day it would get too old and sick. At night he would pull the box out, stroke the bird’s feathers, and whisper to it love and secrets.

By then he had outgrown picture books, but sometimes he still found himself looking back at _Snow White._ The page that had frightened him so much now looked more cartoony than nightmarish, but it captivated his interest nonetheless. All of the princess’s death did. She stayed unchanging in the coffin until the prince kissed her back to life. _But_ , he couldn’t keep from thinking, _but what if_ … What if what? 

He couldn’t hide the bird’s stench after a month and his father tossed it in the trash. 

*

He approaches the table and runs a light hand down the asset’s cold chest. His footsteps echo in the empty room, telegraphing his movements, but the asset wouldn’t have responded even if the touch came without warning. 

It’s not the drugs: they keep the asset docile but not dead to the world. Rumlow had to train the reactions out of him. 

The asset used to lean into body heat. When fingers ghosted at his cock or his ass, the asset gasped. He would squirm and whimper and stare up at the agents with blankly confused eyes. Maybe he’d been so unaccustomed to soft touches that he couldn’t contain pleasure the way he ignored pain. Maybe the responses were taught, encouraged. And the sight of the Winter Soldier writhing, biting through his own lip—it is intoxicating. But the asset now, deathly white and immobile, is so much better. 

Rumlow had taken the stun baton to the asset again and again, at his stomach, his nipples, his cock. There was a time he’d let the men watch and they’d never understood. Giggling and jeering: “What’s the matter, sir? Don’t you wanna show him a good time?” 

“If you’re gonna be stupid enough to grab a tiger by the balls,” Rumlow had said, “you better be smart enough to make sure it’s a trained one.” 

And no one had questioned it. It had only taken one particularly informative session—the asset tense on the table as Rumlow had worked the baton in and out of the man’s ass—for the asset to grasp the rules. Don’t move a muscle, don’t make a sound. Don’t even open your eyes unless you’re told. 

Sometimes Rumlow orders him to open his eyes. But that’s rare. They’re perfect when they’re open: empty and dead. The only trouble is the blinking. 

*

When he was fourteen, all gangly limbs and acne and awkward, ill-timed boners, he found _Snow White_ again. In the process of moving the shelves to make room for a Mötley Crüe poster, the book slid onto the floor, blood red apple on the cover sparking memories. He’d forgotten the book beyond that it used to scare him shitless and he sank down onto the carpet to re-read it. He didn’t realize he’d gotten hard until the prince kissed Snow White back to life and the pressure started to flag. He threw the book to the wall, then tore it to pieces. And later burned every scrap of the pages. 

He didn’t sleep well that night. He was never one to pray, but his thoughts had turned to any deity that would listen. _Don’t let me be a sick fuck like that, don’t make me a pervert like_ that, _please God please._

By high school graduation, it was clear God had forsaken him. 

College was never an option, no matter how much he toyed with the thought of mortuary school in the dark hole at the back of his mind. He lacked the money and the brains. There were other ways, he knew, he _dreamed._ Hospital orderly, mortician’s assistant. Church employee, if he really wanted to damn himself. But instead he went to the army, hoping against hope that their structure and discipline could fix the broken, gaping void inside him. He’d never acted on it, never sought it out no matter how badly he ached for it. Sure, he jerked himself to tears with fantasies that would make a decent man sick, but he didn’t _do_ it. He couldn’t, wouldn’t cross that line. 

*

The asset’s skin is chilled and clammy under Rumlow’s hand. He rakes his nails down the man’s chest; the cold makes the asset’s flesh slow to respond and given how quickly he heals, there will hardly be anything in the way of scratch marks. He doesn’t bruise or redden and he barely bleeds. He’s a masterpiece. 

“You’re beautiful,” Rumlow murmurs. “You’re perfect.” He rolls a nipple, already stiff from the cold, between his fingers. There’s no shudder through the asset, no slackening of his pretty blue lips. 

Rumlow’s achingly hard, already dizzy with arousal. When he hauls himself up on the table, balanced on all fours with the asset below him, his cock drags against the fabric of his pants and it’s all he can do to keep from rutting against the asset until he comes so hard he sees stars. In this state, it would take less than a minute. 

But he doesn’t, biting at his lip until he tastes blood. Pain is order and it draws him back from the edge. He runs his thumb over the asset’s mouth, pulling away before the body can breathe and spoil the illusion. “You’re mine,” he says, lying down until he’s blanketing the asset, fingers winding through damp hair. His erection presses into the sharp angle of the asset’s hip. “You’ll never leave me.” 

His lips seal around the pale and still throat, sucking desperately at icy flesh. “You’ll never leave me,” he whispers when he releases to breathe. “You’re not allowed to leave me.” 

The asset does not move. 

*

The first time he saw a man die, in his tour of duty, it fucked him up. It fucked the whole squad up. But unlike the others, it wasn’t the loss that made him wake screaming in the night. 

The one who died, Ellis, he had liked him. Everyone had. Ellis wasn’t especially funny or smart or even that skilled, but he’d been likable enough. Young, friendly, never had a harsh word for anybody. 

Ellis got shot in the head. The bullet blew out the back of his skull but left his face mostly intact. His soiled pants were tented at the front. Angel lust, they called it. It happened with hangings too. Put pressure on the right part of the brain or the spine, and the cock springs right up. 

He hadn’t felt anything but shock and sadness until they were well out of the line of fire. Then those sensations began to ebb, giving way to lust. He dreamed of jerking Ellis until the body spilled its very last, dreamed of kissing the acne-scarred face that had never appealed to him before it was slack and lifeless. He woke up hoarse from shrieking and horrified and harder than he’d ever been in his life. 

*

He slides down the asset’s body, mouth working from neck to collarbone to chest. Sucking and biting at one nipple, Rumlow pinches and rolls the other. His free hand slips in the space between their bodies, palming the asset’s limp, cool cock. He doesn’t worry about heating the asset up with his own body; the man holds cold like a freezer. 

“You’re perfect,” Rumlow murmurs, spilling a litany of praises against the soft white skin. “All mine you’re so good you’re so still so pretty I’ll never let you go.” 

There’s the faintest stir against his hand. He tells himself it’s angel lust, pretends the asset can’t hear. Another session with the stun baton might be in order; it’s fine if the asset gets hard, but if he’s responding to the words, it ruins everything. Rumlow shakes the thought aside, grinding his hips down on the asset’s thigh. Another time. Don’t spoil the moment. 

He rocks against the motionless leg again before he sits up, shuffles back. Rumlow swallows the asset’s cock in one smooth movement and grins, humming a little, when there’s no sudden intake of breath. 

The rest of the team used to watch, but it wasn’t right with them. He couldn’t suck the asset in front of them, couldn’t tell him how lovely and sweet and cold he is, like the first taste of a snowfall. And their comments— _see, he’s hard, he likes it_ and _must be so used to having a cock in his ass_ —spoiled everything. He’d kicked them out, told them they’d get a turn later. “I worked my ass off to get where I am and I deserve to get off without looking at your ugly mugs,” he’d said. 

“You’d last longer if you had to look at ‘em,” one of the men had groused, but no one had fought it. The commander deserved a little privacy and they were probably just jealous they weren’t afforded the same. 

Rumlow sucks and licks until the asset’s half-hard. He can’t wait any longer. Pulling back, Rumlow wipes his mouth and smiles down at that perfect form, lying just as it was when he stepped in the door. He presses a kiss to the asset’s cheek, hugs as best as he can without lifting the body. He could sleep this way, huddled up beside him, but the asset would be warm when they woke. The asset would _wake_. 

“Gonna give you what you need,” he promises, steadying one hand on the asset’s hip while the other frees himself from his pants. “You’re mine, I’ll give you everything, I’m all you need.” 

And the asset doesn’t argue. 

*

Her name was Amy. 

He met her once his tour was over and he was back in the States. She wasn’t gorgeous, but she was cute and witty though not smart enough to avoid a loser like him. They’d spent eight months together, the happiest eight months of his life. 

“Let’s play a game,” he’d said, and Amy had arched an eyebrow. He never suggested things in bed, too afraid of what could slip out in the heat of the moment. “I’ll make you feel as good as I can, for as long as I can, but there’s a catch. You’ve gotta hold completely still or I’ll stop.” 

“I didn’t know you were into dominant stuff,” she’d said. “Should I choose a safeword?” 

“Do you want to play?” he asked quietly, shy. 

They played. The safeword was snow. 

Amy’s job transferred her across the country. She was gone before he ever worked up the nerve to ask if she’d lie in cold water before they played. The bed felt empty and vast. He dreamed of her for months, and in the dreams she was much quieter, much less animated. In the dreams, she’d never left. 

He never tried looking for another partner. By the time HYDRA found him, he was developing calluses on his left hand and his dick from jerking off one too many times to “Mary Jane’s Last Dance.” They introduced him to their order and their asset and suddenly, he hadn’t missed Amy so much anymore. 

*

He sucks on his fingers before sliding them into the asset, slowly working him open. The body below him won’t move even if Rumlow shoves in and tears him, but the bleeding would mar the pretty picture they’ve made here, and heat things up besides. He strokes the prostate and the asset’s cock jumps. Rumlow tells himself it’s simple stimulus and response, the way a corpse’s leg will twitch when the right tendons are tugged. 

It’s easy to believe when the asset’s so still. His throat doesn’t tighten. His blue mouth doesn’t tense. His eyelashes stay dark and steady against his pure white skin. The visual, beautiful and unchanging throughout the years, like a priceless portrait, threatens to send Rumlow hurtling over the edge. 

He rubs that cold spot a few more times before the pressure grows unbearable and he has to withdraw, slipping a condom from his pocket and ripping the packet apart in his haste to get it out. 

Sure, the sensation’s a little deadened—his mouth curls into a smirk—but the asset’s so cold inside. Without some form of insulation, Rumlow would wilt like a flower. And the asset’s not allowed to reject him that way. The condom’s lubricated and he doesn’t bother with any further preparation, nudging the asset’s legs apart, positioning himself and sliding in. 

The cold and tight envelopes him and Rumlow’s eyelashes flutter as he thrusts in deeper. One hand grasps the asset’s hip with a firmness that should bruise, but won’t. The other wraps around the asset’s cock, tugging, dragging the foreskin up and down over the head. 

“Perfect, you’re perfect.” The words are rasped and involuntary, pouring out of him as he slams his hips forward. “You’re so good so cold you’re mine forever no one else can have you.” 

And the asset lies quiet, white, freezing. Like an offering on an altar, a call to worship. Rumlow can’t resist it, releasing the man’s cock in favor of running his hands over that perfect body, sucking at cool, tender flesh. 

“You need me,” Rumlow says, though the words come out as half-gasps now, bordering on unintelligible. He’s too close to slow himself, savor the moment. It’s always over too fast but no matter what he promises himself he’ll do the next time, he can never hold back. “You need me I’ll take care of you so good you’re so good I’ll make you feel so good you’re beautiful you’re—”

There is movement now: the asset’s body is shaking on the table. It’s not him, it’s the force of Rumlow’s thrusts. The asset’s head lolls to the side, dark hair falling over icy white skin, and Rumlow brushes it away with a trembling hand. 

“So pretty you’re mine you need me I love you I love you _Iloveyou_ —”

And then his words break off in a strangled cry as he comes into that cold, dark space. His hips thrust again and again, rocking the asset on the table. Rumlow pants, slumping down on the body below him. The asset’s forgotten cock lies stiff and pinned between them. 

He strokes that frozen face again. “You’re perfect.” Petting back the dark hair, he presses his mouth softly to those blue lips. 

The asset does not stir. 

Happily ever after. 

**Author's Note:**

> "Der Blaubeermund" is German for "The Blueberry Mouth." It is the title of [a song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zQHy8nqCtxM) by E Nomine. If you'd like a translation of the lyrics, one is available [here.](http://lyricstranslate.com/en/der-blaubeermund-blueberry-mouth.html)
> 
> Most of Rumlow's fantasies, actions with the Winter Soldier, and ideas for various careers were inspired by J.P. Rosman and P.J. Resnick's article ["Sexual attraction to corpses: A psychiatric review of necrophilia,"](http://www.jaapl.org/content/17/2/153.full.pdf+html?sid=94a1e953-67b0-44c0-95a6-75ee304d916e) as published in the _Bulletin of the American Academy of Psychiatry and the Law._
> 
> ["Mary Jane's Last Dance"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aowSGxim_O8) is a 1993 song by Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers. In its music video, Petty takes a woman's body from the morgue to serve as his partner.


End file.
